Neglected Observations Season 1
by Akane Nyx
Summary: A collection of one-shots based on episodes from Season 1. As close to cannon as possible. Will vary in lenght and genre. I'm trying to stay away from the over-written scenarios unless I have a different take on them. I'll try to post weekly. BxB HxA
1. 1:01 Misguided Intentions

_General notes for the entire series:_

_This is a bit of a challenge to myself._

_I'm planning to write at least one one-shot for each episode, with each one-shot having it's own chapter and each season having it's own story. I'm not making any promises about word count/content/update speed/etc. I'm going to post them in order. I'll try to be clear about where things fit in. __I plan to stay away from things that are over-written (i.e. you probably won't be seeing a note from Brennan to Booth when I get to Aliens in a Spaceship). If you have any neglected scenes that you feel deserve a little attention, drop me a line and point me in the right direction._

_I'm operating on the assumption that Booth and Bones have only worked one case together before the pilot episode._

_I've tried my best to no give away anything learned in later episodes without it coming directly from the person it is about. (i.e. In the first installment Booth mentions his son, but the audience doesn't learn about him until episode 1:09. Since it comes directly from Booth, I allow it.)_

_If something I write falls outside of cannon (if this happens it will most likely be a time discrepancy. I'm not going to be writing anything remotely resembling AU.) I will make note of it. If I screw something up and don't note it, please let me know. I'm trying to hold this as close to cannon as possible._

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_**1:01 - ****Pilot**_

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**Misguided Intentions**

"Just go, Angela. I'll be fine."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. It's not first time that this has happened to me. There's really no reason for you to wait around until they get this straightened out. I'll just catch a cab."

"Alright. Call me when you get home."

Brennan shook her head. "I'll be by the lab."

"Go home and get some rest."

"You know that I've got a lot of work to do."

Angela rolled her eyes, knowing better than to argue. "Fine sweetie. I'll see you later." She made her way out of the airport quickly, hoping to avoid paying for a third hour of parking, when the man holding the door open for her spoke.

"How mad is she?"

"Excuse me?" Angela asked, turning to face the man. "Oh! Agent Booth."

"Yeah."

"Wait. You staged this?"

He did not commit to an answer. "How mad is Bones?"

"She beat up a Homeland Security agent."

"Ouch. Was it Agent Franklin?"

"Is Franklin a big man who is dumb enough to think that he could take her bag without consequences?"

"No. Oh, no… Was he a black guy?"

"Yeah."

"She got the upper hand on Gibson!? He and I used to bowl together. I am never going to hear the end of this!"

"I even got a few hits in," Angela laughed. "After working one case with her, you should have known better."

"I had to do something. She won't return my calls."

"She's been in Guatemala."

"The guy who has been answering her calls…"

"Zack," Angela supplied.

"Yeah. He says she instructed him to tell me that she is out of the office whenever I call whether she really is or not," he said, looking put out.

"Of course she did." Angela took pity on the agent and walked to a bench just outside the door. "It's nothing personal, or at least no more personal than it ever is with Brennan."

"I'm not sure I follow you."

"You're going to work with her again?"

He nodded and took a seat beside her. "Someone found a body in Arlington."

"And after this case?"

"I was appointed liaison to the Jeffersonian. I think they took it as a good sign that I'm the only agent so far that she hasn't injured."

"Oh, it's a very good sign," Angela confirmed.

There was an uncomfortable pause before he spoke again. "You two are friends, right?"

"The best of," she verified with a nod.

"Can you help me out? I mean, I'm used to other agents, but I don't know how to handle her and the other squints. The bureau is breathing down my neck. They say that I don't exactly play well with others and if I don't make this arrangement work, they're talking about transferring me."

"Where?"

"Somewhere my son isn't."

Angela nodded thoughtfully, "What you're planning here will blow up in your face."

"Meaning?"

"Knight in shining armor rescuing the distressed damsel: It's not the sort of gesture she'll appreciate."

"Alright…" Booth said, not bothering to argue his motives. He recognized that the woman sitting beside him on the bench could read people as well as he could, maybe better.

"Don't try to 'handle' her, or any of us for that matter. Show her some respect. Treat her as an equal. Give her room to work. Don't talk down on what she does because she is the best that there is at it. If you're at the lab, keep your distance from the equipment, that's how the last agent got his wrist broken."

"Anything else."

"Don't forget we're human."

"Of course you are," he said, slightly confused.

Angela gave him a calculating look, "Agent Booth, I'm an artist. I know how cold they all seem, but they're not. Brennan especially. There are a lot of things that she carries around; a lot of baggage. She's got a very tough exterior, but underneath it all she's just as insecure as the rest of us, maybe more so. Her life has been far from easy. She doesn't trust anyone. I'm not even always sure that she trusts me."

He nodded slowly, absorbing Angela's words and tucking them away for future reference.

"Do not insult her. Don't lie to her. Don't break promises. Don't disappear for weeks at a time without telling her, case or no case. Be patient with her. And whatever you do, don't hurt her."

"This is starting to sound like relationship advice," he said with an awkward chuckle

"I've known her longer than anyone else who is still in her life. If you want her to trust you, you'll listen to me. And if you want to be able to work with her, she'll have to trust you explicitly," she said, standing and starting toward the parking garage. After a few steps, she paused and turned back. "And Booth?"

"Yes?"

"No matter how much she protests, don't quit calling her Bones."

He smiled. "She hates it."

"She does for now," Angela agreed. She studied the man intensely for a few moments. "If you don't screw this up you're going to be good for her. Very, very good for her."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I'm not sure yet," she admitted, turning on her heel and walking without a backward glance to her car.


	2. 1:02 Messy

_AN: I posted a note in the forums about this, but I thought I'd put it out there for those who don't venture in that direction. I can't believe that I've never come across a fic about the conversation between Angela and Tessa. We know Angela doesn't give away who she is, that she knows Brennan and Booth, or that she knows who Tessa is. We also know that she learns that Tessa is eating a lowfat muffin and reading a book on unsoved FBI cases, but that's all we really know. I'd like to se someone's take on how the conversation went and maybe Angela's thought process during it. I've tried, but I just can't do it any justice. Any takers? _

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**_1:02 - The Man in the SUV_**

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_AN: Because, after the events of that morning, Booth should have had some sort of a reaction to the suspect's comment. I had to rewatch this scene several times. I had honestly thought that he glanced at the observation window, but he doesn't._

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Messy**

"Have you never been in the middle of a messy relationship, Agent Booth, or are you a perfect man?"

The question caught him off guard, but he gave no outward indication of it. He didn't turn toward the observation window, where his partner watched through the glass. "I prefer to ask the questions, Mr. Largivardi," he snapped.

Anyone else would have thought that he was generally agitated with the man he was questioning. He was very adamant about honesty and fidelity in relationships. But he found himself, for the first time, feeling a bit of empathy for the adulterer in front of him.

A messy relationship: Was his messy? It hadn't been until Bones had shown up at his apartment completely unannounced, catching him with Tessa. Since when did getting caught with his own girlfriend in his own home make him feel so dirty?

He was still firing off the right questions, hoping the Bones was paying more attention to the man's answer than he was. That's when it suddenly occurred to him that the first place that his mind should have wandered to was his declined proposal to Rebecca. That along with the current custody situation was definitely enough to earn the designation of 'messy'.

But Bones in the same place with Tessa? That shouldn't have been awkward. And what had that feeling in pit of his stomach been when Tessa gave him the look that insisted upon a goodbye kiss? It was a feeling that he usually associated with guilt, but that made no sense.

After the interrogation was complete he walked toward Bones. The feelings stirred by one look told him all he needed to know. It wasn't messy yet, but he realized if he didn't proceed with the utmost caution, it would get that way.


	3. 1:02 Unspoken

_**1:02 - ****The Man in the SUV**_

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_AN: Maybe I'm the only one who interpreted this scene this way. I'm not sure. I just know that there's a lot of subtext there. I was shocked by just how much when I re-watched the episode._

**Unspoken**

"… There is no pleasure in taking someone's life. Nothing to celebrate."

Brennan turned to look directly at him and for the briefest moment he thought he saw something more than her usual cold exterior. It was the same thing that he had glimpsed in the cemetery after Cleo had been laid to rest. "You saved so many people, Booth. Don't forget that."

There was gratitude in her voice and the unsaid, 'Myself included,' hung in the air between them. He realized that, even though he had probably saved hundreds today, she wasn't thinking of the others. The concept of someone being there for her was still new.

She smiled, or attempted to. "Shouldn't you be getting home?"

Booth found himself needing further explanation.

"Tessa will be worried about you," she clarified. The implication was clear to him. It wasn't Brennan didn't enjoy his company. It wasn't that she didn't want him there. It was a sort of empathy; she might have well said that in Tessa's shoes she would have been worried.

"Yeah, I guess I should," he said, tossing a few bills on the counter.

This time her smile was genuine, and he had to fight himself to walk toward the door. Something had changed in her over this case, and he briefly wondered if seeing Tessa at his place had played in that. He shook his head at the ridiculous thought.

At the door he glanced back over his shoulder. She sat at the counter exactly as she had, her head tilted as though she was still intently listening to him. Something was there. He couldn't name it, but something was there.

As he turned back toward the door, it came to him. She was starting to understand him, maybe even trust him.

She didn't need to say it aloud. For now he'd let it remain unspoken.


	4. 1:03 Harmonizing

**1:03 - ****A Boy in a Tree**

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_AN: This was a very hard episode to write for. Nothing really jumped out at me except for this scene. This is one of the first times where we see Booth and Brennan's complementary skills play off eachother._

**Harmonizing**

In a way I felt like he had us staring down an empty alley. "What are we looking for?" I asked, hoping for an answer that had nothing to do with his gut.

"I talked to Nester's teachers, the few students that he hung out with. He was a loner. Well, I mean, he went to his classes. But, you know, mainly he just stayed in his room. That's it. So, I figured, you know, we'd come here and you do your little anthropologist thing. Huh?

'Little anthropologist thing' was akin to fingernails being drug down a chalkboard, but I agreed. We were too close to running out of options for my pride to get in the way. "Okay."

~*~

She walked around the foot of his bed to a dresser. I half expected her to begin opening drawers, hunting for some buried secret, but that was something a cop would do. It was not her way. Instead she picked up a CD. "He liked music. Heavy percussion: low frequencies for the most part. It's the stuff he probably liked before the implant. He could feel the vibrations in his chest." I was beginning to suspect that she would never cease to amaze me. I couldn't think of another investigator who would consider a deaf boy's taste in music as potential evidence. "After the implant, he started enjoying stuff with more melody. He was growing. He enjoyed it."

"Enjoyment is the opposite of suicide," I said, more to myself than to her.

"You've decided this isn't a suicide, so you're collecting evidence to support that. By closing your mind, you're missing important indicators."

I turned slightly, wondering when I'd become so invested in this case that I needed a squint to remind me how to do my job. Then something caught my eye. "Yeah?" I countered swiftly, "So then why'd he throw this away?" She looked at me curiously, so I continued. "I mean, hey, it's flute music. That's reason enough. But, where's the case."

~*~

The missing case was an intuitive leap and not one that I'd have taken. "Um…" I began, walking toward the bookshelf, only to find myself floundering when I got there. Mozart was beside Apocalyptica, which was next to a CD of kettledrum solos. "These aren't organized."

"Well, you know," Booth began somewhat awkwardly, "Girls, they organize alphabetically. Guys are more organic."

That made sense to me; a lot of research had been dedicated to the differences between the male and female minds. I didn't believe all of it, but some was very convincing.

"Good stuff up and to the left. Crap," he announced with a whistle, "Bottom right." Within a matter of seconds he located the CD case. I would have had to begin reading the cases one by one to find it.

He opened up the case and said. "Look at that."

"What?"

"I mean," he asked sounding thoroughly confused, "if he hated it, why'd he reburn it?"

I glanced into the case, and once again saw the empirical evidence that I wouldn't have known to look for if he hadn't asked his gut-drive question. "This isn't a CD. It's a DVD."

"Huh," he muttered, turning the disc slightly so the DVD logo reflected into focus.

It was then that I realized, our completely opposite approaches and skill sets weren't things that would hold us back. It wouldn't be a handicap, but rather an asset.

We didn't contradict eachother.

We harmonized.


	5. 1:04 The Bone Gatherers

**1:04 - The Man in the Bear**

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_AN: Another rather difficult episode to write for. I couldn't find any traditions or legends about the Bone Collectors that Sherman cites, so this is my spin on it. Some of the points are drawn from different tribes and cultures._

**The Bone Gatherers**

After almost an hour in the woods Sherman had oriented himself toward a small cabin near the edge of the reservation. He knew he should not have run from the sheriff, but the flight instinct had beaten out common sense. It did not take long to reach his destination once it had come to mind, and soon he was standing at the door of the cabin.

One knock brought the resident to the door. Sherman's uncle was an elder by any definition of the word. He was a perceptive old man who was always generous with advice. He gave a smile as he opened the door and ushered Sherman in.

He wasted no time in his mission as he sat down beside the small woodstove. "I know it's late Uncle, but please tell me about the Bone Gatherers."

"It was always your favorite story as a child," the old man recalled in a laughing tone, making his way to a rocking chair on the other side of the small room. "I never quite understood that about you. Most children prefer the story about the changing hare."

"It always seemed more important," Sherman said with a shrug. He knew something in his voice sounded grave, but he couldn't control that.

"Alright then," the man agreed. "In the early days, when one of our tribesmen died, the traditions were very clear. The body was first taken to a swift moving stream. This 'River of the Dead,' as it was called, was never used by the living except to prepare a family member for the afterlife. The younger women of the family would wash the body in the stream. After being bathed, the deceased was placed on a litter woven from sticks and covered in mosses, leaves, and bark that the older female relatives had prepared.

"The men of the family would then carry the litter across the stream and into Death's Field. In this small meadow the women would weave grass mats while the men erected a wooden scaffold. The children would lay the mats over the body, weighting them with small stones, before the men lifted the litter onto the scaffold.

"It was said to be a measure of character to be able to walk away from the meadow without looking back. After a few weeks of mourning, the family would return to retrieve the now bare bones of their family member. The bones were taken to the stream and washed. Once they had dried they were placed in a lidded basket, along with a small token sacrifice, and then buried.

"The afterlife was said to be a place of plenty and peace. It was believed that the spirits of the dead were carried by the birds that ate their flesh: namely the ravens. Once the dead were delivered to the afterlife, they became purely spiritual. Those who made it could speak to the animals and influence the weather. It was considered a reward for to the trials that one faced in life to be allowed to help the future generations of the tribe.

"Sadly, the raven is a trickster. For a body to be accepted into the afterlife, the traditions had to be observed carefully. If there weren't at least one hundred eighty bones in the burial basket, the spirit would forever be divided among the ravens.

"The devious ravens would scatter the bones in of the dead in an attempt to keep their spirit, and therefore their powers, for themselves. It worked. Without the spirits of our ancestors to help our growing tribe, bad luck fell upon us. The rains weren't sufficient and the herds of deer moved on from the area.

"The chief at the time was a wise man and he appointed a very intelligent young man with better than average vision to watch over Death's Field. It was his job to retrieve the scattered bones and keep the skeletons together.

"He did this honorable task well, watching over the bodies of the dead and in turn the future of the tribe, until he grew old and his eyesight began to fade. By this time the rains had returned and the deer were starting to move back into the area.

"This first Bone Gatherer had seen the effects of his work, and without prompting from the chief had trained his youngest son to take over his work. The tradition has continued through the family.

"The traditions have changed. We no longer wash the dead in the stream place them on litters and entrust their spirits to the birds. It is no longer acceptable in these times. Now we cremate our fallen tribesmen in a special process that leaves the bones nearly intact. The ashes of their flesh are now scattered on the wind, but their bones are still buried according to the old tradition.

"It is now the task of the Bone Gatherer to separate the bones from the ashes and deliver them to the family of the deceased, so that they may be buried with respect.

"But you didn't come her tonight for the old stories…"

"No, sir."

"Well?"

"I met one."

"A Bone Gatherer?"

"Yes."

"Well of course you have. He brought you father's bones to you two winters ago."

"No. I met a different kind of Bone Gatherer. She collects the bones of the dead in order to tell their story."

The old man nodded. "And this telling; it brings the dead peace?"

"Yes. She collects the bones of those who died as victims. And from those bones she answers the questions they left behind. She brings them both peace and justice."

"Then she leads a noble life. It still doesn't explain why you're here."

Sherman drew a deep breath and related the happenings of the last few days, from the time that the bear was found up until he ran from the sheriff.

"A Bone Gatherer who does not believe in the afterlife," the elder wondered. He fell silent for a few moments before he spoke. "I was a young boy when the original burial rites were coming to an end. The last true Bone Gatherer had no sons; I was the son of his cousin. By the time that the final burial was conducted in the traditional way, he was in poor health. I sat beside him for nearly three weeks until the litter was lowered from the scaffold. I retrieved many of the bones that were scatter to the far edge of the meadow."

"You were a Bone Gatherer?" he asked sounding surprised.

"No. The next in line to be the Bone Gatherer had been sent to the city to be trained in the new ways. I was merely a helper; as are you. It is still a noble task and a great honor. Help this Gatherer in any way you can, and surely fortune will shine on you later."

"Thank you," Sherman said, retreating to the door with a smile.

"You can thank me by returning with the part of the story that has not been told yet."

"Of course, Uncle."

"That's my boy."


	6. 1:05 Snap

**1:05 - ****A Boy in a Bush**

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_AN: Not exactly my usual take on things. I'm always introspective, but this feels strange, even to me._

**Snap**

He had gotten used to hiding his wealth. Dates never saw his house, but a rather nice apartment across town. They didn't see his small collection cars, just the mini cooper. Nothing gave him away as the man that he was and he liked it that way.

_snap_

His job was his escape. No one was asking him to make decisions for a group of companies that he hated inheriting. No one was trying to push him to have a more active role in management. There was no board of directors, no stockholders.

_snap_

Of course he was angry. Zack knew his secret. He had known all along, but it didn't make any difference. Zack knew to not say anything. Booth was different. If Booth knew, Brennan wasn't far behind. He didn't want to deal with that. For the money he gave this place, he could be her boss. She couldn't know.

_snap_

And then there was Angela. She knew. She knew that he wasn't just like everyone else in the lab. She knew that he was the single largest contributor to the Jeffersonian. She understood why he didn't want to attend the gala that Goodman assured them was required.

_snap_

He didn't like being found out. It made him angry. The band on his wrist wasn't helping like it usually did. The pain didn't distract him from the anger, today it was just making it worse.

_snap_

Angela walked into his office. Spoke briefly about something he barely registered. He calmed marginally when he realized that she wasn't treating him any differently than usual. She smiled and then pulled the band around his wrist tight between her fingernails before releasing it.

_SNAP_

It stung, worse than it did when the pain was self-inflicted. The dark cloud cleared from his mind and suddenly things were clear. Angela wasn't like the women who sought him out because of his money or his so-called social status. She wasn't that sort of person at all. It wouldn't have mattered to her if he were dirt poor. She saw him as a person, not a number on a bank statement or a name on a never-used office door. He could get used being seen like this.

_snap_

This time, when he sent the band recoiling against his skin it wasn't to erase anger, but rather to bring himself out of a daydream that she had induced. He smiled softly as the pain caught him. There had been something in her eyes that said she understood and he knew if he weren't careful, it would eventually cause him to snap.


	7. 1:06 Bloody Men Bloody Man

_AN: I meant to post this one on Memorial day, but I seemed to have miscounted my chapters._

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**1:06 -** **The Man in the Wall**

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_AN: Because not enough is written on Booth's faith. He has been through so much that would cause a weaker man to turn his back on God. I thought that needed acknowledged._

**Bloody Men / Bloody Man**

"…inequity. Do you know that word, Agent Booth? It's from the Bible." The victim's father looked at me expectantly.

"Deliver me from the workers of inequity. Save me from bloody men." I replied automatically. Even I could hear the reverence with which I spoke those words.

"I see you know your Psalms," he said, in an approving tone. It was obvious that he was glad to have his son's case in the hands of a God-fearing man.

If he only knew where those verses threw me back to, he probably wouldn't be so approving. This man, might even be sympathetic. I didn't want sympathy though, only peace.

It was like a hand plunged into my chest and draggedme back to long days and nights spend in a tiny, dirt-floored cell. There was little water and even less food. It wasn't long until pain and prayer had become my only constants. I had repeated Psalms 59:2 so many times during those days that it had nearly become a mantra.

After a while the lack of food and sleep coupled with excruciating pain gets to everyone. Everyone there broke eventually. Even though I couldn't see any of the other prisoners, I could hear them. It was silent at night and a cacophony of broken sobs and howls rose up, punctuated by cries for freedom and pleas for death. My tears did not fall silently because I was a proud man, but rather because my childhood had taught me to hide them. The only sound that came from my cell was scratching.

The worst part was that I could no longer discern whether I was the one in need of saving or one of the 'bloody men.' It was the only point in which my captors had won. I couldn't see at the time that maybe I was both.

I was grateful that no one mentioned the verse that was carved repeatedly into the walls or my bloodied fingertips when I was finally rescued. The soldier that they pulled out of the cell next to mine would slide needles and slivers of wood under his own fingernails, muttering about how it wouldn't be so easy for the bastards next time. Every last person there went mad in his own way.

As the victim's father walked out of my office I wrenched myself away from the dark remembrances and heaved myself to my battered feet. From my back pocket, I drew my wallet, and from it I took a small piece of paper. I knew the words by heart, but I carried it with me nonetheless.

_Deliver me from mine enemies, O my God: defend me from them that rise up against me._

_Deliver me from the workers of inequity. Save me from bloody men._

_For, lo, they lie in wait for my soul: the mighty are gathered against me; not for my transgression, nor for my sin, O Lord. _

_They run and prepare themselves without my fault: Awake to help me, and behold._

_Thou therefore, O Lord God of hosts, the god of Israel, awake and visit all the heathen: be not merciful to any wicked transgressor. Selah._

_They return at evening: they make a noise like a dog, and go round the city._

_Behold, the belch out with their mouth: swords are in their lips: for so say they, doth hear?_

_But thou, O Lord, shalt laugh at them; though shalt have all the heathen in derision._

_Because of his strength I will wait upon thee: for God is my defense._

_The God of my mercy shall prevent me: God shall let me see my desire upon mine enemies._

_Slay them not, lest my people forget: Scatter them by thy power; and bring them down, O Lord our shield._

_For the sin of their mouth and the words of their lips let them even be taken in their pride: and for cursing and lying which they speak._

_Consume in wrath, consume them, that they may not be" and let them know that God ruleth in Jacob unto the ends of the earth. Selah._

_And at evening let them return; and let them make a noise like a dog, and go round about the city._

_Let them wander up and down for meat, and grudge if they will be not satisfied._

_But I will sing of thy power; yea, I will sing aloud of thy mercy in the morning: for thou hast been my defense and refuge in the day of my trouble._

_Unto thee, O my strength, will I sing: for god is my defense, and the God of my mercy._

All these years later and I still don't know for sure if I'm the bloody man or not, but I do know that I do what I can to put an end to the reign of the workers of inequity and bloody men.

And I feel certain that the Lord is merciful and remain hopeful that he will grant me a piece of that mercy.


	8. 1:06 Steel Drums & Steel Blue Skies

**1:06 - ****The Man in the Wall**

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**Steel Drums and Steel Blue Skies**

Jamaica: Less than half an hour before sunset. The surf rolls in; the foam slips out. It's a constant, rhythmic background track to the setting sun. No music mars the scenery here. Colors that I've never seen in nature fill the western sky. Maybe that's why, after seeing my first 'Perfect Jamaican Sunset' from the balcony of my hotel room that first evening on the island, I had begun opting for a quiet spot on an east-facing beach.

I had taken a seat under this crooked palm tree almost two hours ago. The six bottles of beer in my bucket had dwindled to two as I watched the eastern sky shift from blue to gray. I was alone here. All of the other tourists had chosen romantic views and brilliant colors. Here it was just me, two more beers, and the old man halfway down the beach who I had seen casting a line into the surf every night since I started retreating to this spot.

For the first time I had an unsettled feeling while on vacation. I hadn't been joking with Bones about how time away made me feel like not going back, but instead of looking upon tomorrow evening's departure with dread, I was actually looking forward to returning home.

I thought on this for a moment. What good was there for me to return to? Tessa and I were obviously through. She didn't need to lie to me about her workload, I had felt things slipping apart while I was planning this trip. It should have been more apparent. She was looking foreword to the relaxation and the views and the romance. I wanted to go snorkeling and surfing. Just as the realization that I was the problem hit me, I also realized that I wasn't alone.

When I turned to face the fisherman, who had taken a seat in the sand beside me, he spoke, "Sonny, just what kind of tourist are you?"

I didn't know exactly how to respond to his question so I took a page from my dealings with Bones and waited for him to elaborate.

"You've been down here every night, staring out across the water. Most people come here, they watch the sunset, they go swim, or surf, or fish, or something. You just sit here."

"This isn't the sort of place to travel to alone," I offered.

"Ha. Don't give me that! I met Julia here, Fifty-one years ago. Well I met her on the other side of the island," the man smiled remincently, "at sunset matter of fact. Honeymooned here four years later."

There wasn't anything to say to such a comment, so I just smiled.

"Yep," he said, continuing his tale. "Always swore we'd come back. Retired here about ten years ago."

"I don't know if I could settle in a place like this for that long," I admitted.

"And why's that?"

"I don't know. Everything moves so slow."

He laughed again, and pulled one of the beers from my ice bucket without asking. "Men like us need to retire someplace calm."

"What do you mean?"

"I know someone with a high stress job when I see them. I looked at one in a mirror too long to not recognize it." He took a long drink as he studied me. "If not for the hair, I'd guess Marines."

I shook my head at the thought. "I was a Ranger for years. You?"

The old man ignored my question. "And now?"

"Special Agent with the FBI."

"No wonder you look so burnt out. Air Force turned NYPD myself," he laughed. "It wasn't so bad. I had one hell of a partner both places."

I felt myself straighten slightly at the word. "Partner?"

The fisherman smiled. "Jones was the best wingman a pilot could hope for. And then once I got home, I worked with a man named Shreve for over fifteen years. Damnedest fellow you ever met. A crack shot, honest, loyal, always had my back, but he was like being stuck in a car with a game of trivial pursuit."

I laughed out loud, in spite of myself.

"You know what I'm talking about, I take it."

"Bones," I said, nodding.

"Pardon?"

"Brennan. She's a squint, though she prefers 'forensic anthropologist.' She's the closest thing I've got to a partner." I laughed again, "I know what you mean about being stuck in a car."

"You take a squint into the field?"

"She demands full involvement." I smile, "It's not really so bad. She's a hell of a shot too."

"Sounds like you've got a good thing."

"Most of the time, but I have a feeling that Tessa didn't see it that way."

"Oh? Your wife?"

I reached for the last beer and briefly wondered when I had begun sharing my life's story with total strangers. "Girlfriend," I corrected. "Ex-girlfriend. She was supposed to come along, but it didn't work out. She said she had to work."

"But you don't think so."

"Things have been getting worse ever since Bones showed up at my door one morning carrying files and tried to make small talk with her while she was standing in my living room in little more than my shirt. Of course the meth incident during this lat case didn't help much."

"Meth?"

"It's a long story," I said, shaking my head.

"I've got time."

"Won't Julia be missing you?"

Something sad darkened the man's eyes. "Not since last spring. My only regret about this island is that the hospitals aren't as good as back home. The cancer came on so fast," he shook his head sadly before pulling himself back together. "C'mon I'll fry these up and you can tell me the story. Good conversation is hard to come by when you're stuck with tourists who don't actually live in the real world."

Unconsciously, I hesitated for a moment before standing.

The fisherman caught it. "The job, it makes it hard to trust, eh?"

"Not the job: just knowing what people are capable of."

The man nodded as he stood and then extended his hand. "I should have introduced myself earlier. Raimondo Moretti. Call me Ray."

"Seeley Booth," I replied, taking the old man's hand and giving it a firm shake.

My gut told me that I had nothing to fear from this man, so I followed him. We walked nearly a quarter mile down the sand before he led me up a narrow footpath. I'm not sure what I had been expecting; but the small, wood-sided, tin roofed cabin that he led me to was not it. "It's not much, but it's home," he explained. "Built it myself. Looks just like my Pop's little cabin in upstate New York. Kick your shoes off and come on in."

I sat down on the Adirondack chair and untied my shoes. Walking in sand was hard on the old injuries. I pulled myself to my feet again and walked through the open door. It was as quaint inside as it was out. Ray may have built it, but it had been Julia's touch that made it a home. The kitchen was separated from the living room by a table with two benches.

"What can I help with," I offered awkwardly.

"Son, I've cooked for myself for over a year. I'm sure I can manage," he said as he stood over the sink, cleaning the fish. "Just take a beer out of my fridge, set one on the counter for me, go have a seat, and get on with the story."

Those weren't exactly hard instructions to follow. I made my way to a slightly worn armchair and pulled my feet up on the small ottoman in front of it. The lid came off my bottle with a soft hiss as I looked around the rather small room. It was a mishmash of local furniture and pieces that must have made the journey from New York. There were as many pictures with tropical backgrounds as there were ones with snow and pine trees. A bookshelf that was within arm's reach drew my attention. Doyle and Christie through Patterson and Connelly. "That's quite a collection," I say, indicating the bookshelf.

"They were hers. I had enough of the real thing to last me forever."

"Could you talk to her about it?" I asked before I could stop myself.

"I take it Tessa didn't understand."

"I never tried. Crime is neat for her: sealed up in case files and courtrooms."

"Lawyer?" he asked.

"Yeah."

"Gotta stay away from them. They don't live in the real world," he mused. "Julia wasn't on the force or anything like that, but she'd seen her fair share. Being an ER nurse in one of New York's bad neighborhoods hardens you. She understood. Gotta have a woman who understands."

His comment was simple and harmless, but it stirred something in me. He was right.

"So this story about your squint," he prompted. "Let's have it."

"Alright. So, my partner, Brennan..."

"What does she look like?" he cut in.

"What's it matter?" I asked, surprised at the defensiveness in my own voice.

"It doesn't really, I suppose. I just like faces to go with names," Ray said as he set a pot on the stove.

"She's tall. Dark hair." I was surprised at how difficult a simple description could be. I glanced toward the bookshelf, only to find Bred in the Bone staring back at me. I laughed and plucked it from the shelf. She smiled back at me from the back cover. I stifled a laugh as I pulled myself out of the armchair and made my way back to the kitchen.

Ray looked at me curiously when I held the book up to him. "I did read that one," he said. "Well read it to her, but still... That author knows what she's talking about. She doesn't gloss over the messy parts. Probably married to a cop."

I couldn't hold back the chuckle as I pointed to her name.

His eyes widened for a moment, "I'll be damned. Small world."

"Yes it is," I agreed, turning the book over to show him her picture.

"Pretty little thing isn't she," he remarked offhandedly. "I see why you look to the east at night."

I didn't ask for him to elaborate, just returned the book to the shelf. "Bones has a friend named Angela. She's an artist and a computer wiz; does facial reconstructions for us. Anyway, Angela talked Bones into going out to this club. I guess it's pretty well known in the local rap scene. Brennan's a bit socially awkward and I'm guessing you know how those science-types talk. From what Angela told me a fight broke out after Bones referred to the music as 'tribal'."

"She alright?"

"Bones?" I laughed. "She put a guy through a wall."

"I thought you said she was a squint?"

"She is. She says she's trained in several forms of martial arts," I said, brushing it off. "Angela said she kicked him in the chest."

"Damn," he muttered under his breath. "I'm sorry, go on."

"From what the other witnesses say, when the wall broke a cloud of white dust came out. She didn't sound like herself when she called. Tessa and I went over."

"You took your lawyer girlfriend to a crime scene?"

"I didn't have much choice. We were on a date. Anyway, when I got there she was peeking through a hole in the wall at a body. "

"Some people have all the luck?"

"Well she was excited about it. She even tried to get Tessa to look at it. At the time, I blamed it on all the meth she inhaled. The vic had a good bit of it on him, and when the guy that Bones kicked went through the wall, the meth went into the club. I just thought she was standing way too close and got more than the others, but I've since been informed that a modern mummy in that good of shape is rare."

"Did you say mummy?" he asked as he set our plates over onto the table.

I nodded as I moved to join him. "Something about the temperature and air currents behind the wall. I'll never understand all that technical shit."

Ray laughed at that. "It was easier when I was first on the force. Less red tape and listening to your gut was still allowed."

I nodded and bowed my head, whispering up a prayer of thanks for both the meal and the man who prepared it.

"So how did the case turn out?"

"Something about a woman and drugs and rap music," I said remaining vague from habit.

"Men only kill for four things," he observed. "Country, love, money, and drugs."

"Too true," I agreed.

As we ate the conversation shifted away from work. We were men of similar pasts and ideals. It was strange, almost like a glimpse of my own future. I didn't realize how late it had gotten until I was drying the last of the dishes.

"I should be going," I said. "I've got to repack my things. I fly out at five tomorrow."

Ray nodded.

"Let me buy you lunch?"

He smiled, in the way that I hadn't seen since the last time I pulled Bones out of her office for a case.

"Noon," I offered, "At the little cantina on this end of town. I'm not sure what it's called, but the door is blue."

Ray laughed heartily. "It's called La Puerta Azul."

I chuckled too, before shaking the man's hand and walking out his front door. As I pulled on my shoes and walked the mile back to my hotel, I thought on my vacation.

Ray's remark about my looking east hung with me, bothering me the whole way back. It wasn't until I reached the hotel and spotted a vase that was the same color as the sky had been tonight that I understood his remark. The steely blue-gray was the same color as her eyes.

The realization caught me off guard, but my gut told me to not worry about what Ray might have been implying. Instead, I found myself thinking about the conversation that she and I had at Sid's just before I left. Bones was right. I wasn't staying, but now it wasn't because this had been the worst vacation I'd had in a long time.

It was because I wanted to get back home.


	9. 1:07 Online

**_1:07 - The Man on Death Row_**

**

* * *

**

_AN__: Drawn from Angela's line, "This job is so hard to describe online,' after Tony that they're all freaks. Am I the only one who thinks that there was a slight resemblance between Tony and Jack? _

**Online**

The apartment wasn't very large, but it told the story of the woman who lived there. Angela walked out of her kitchen carrying a daiquiri and made her way toward the papsan chair in the corner. She turned on the lamp behind the chair, set her drink on the small trunk that doubled as a side table, and lowered herself into the chair. She reached over the side of the chair and picked up her laptop.

She reached for her drink as the computer started up. She could hardly believe that she was doing this, but her schedule was making dating more and more difficult. She logged onto the website and clicked register before taking a long drink from her glass.

With half of the daiquiri gone, she steeled herself and began filling in the form. The first page was simple: Name, sex, location, email address, username, select a password, verify the password, agree to terms. She clicked continue feeling slightly relieved. This wasn't the nightmare that she'd made it out to be.

The next page wasn't daunting either. Are you interested in men or women? What kind of a relationship are you looking for? How far are you willing to travel? Do you have any preferences about their race, level of education, religion, income, or appearance? Does it matter if they have children? Do you care if they drink or smoke? She wondered briefly if her open-mindedness made her look desperate as she looked back over her responses and clicked "continue".

The words "Basic Profile," topped the next page and she found herself faced with a list of questions that would allow others to search for her by answering the questions that she just had. She clicked the "next" button, proud of herself for being honest, even about her height and weight, and for uploading a picture that had not been retouched.

The next page cheerily announced that it was the last one that she would have to fill out before she could begin using the site, only to be titled "Detailed Profile." She slumped back in her chair and finished her drink as she read of the questions. She felt a measure of relief when she saw that the questions were the ones that she would usually hear on a first date. Old standards like "What kind of music do you like?" (Anything in the key of G Demolished) and "How do you spend your free time?" (With friends or painting or exploring.) made her feel more comfortable with the concept.

Then _that_ question stared back at her. "What do you do for a living?" Her immediate response (I draw death masks.) had no place on a dating profile and she knew it. She thought back on Goodman's response to that statement, only to discard it as well. She passed it by as she finished the rest of the questions, which ranged from oddities like "What is your fondest childhood memory?" (Going to my first concert with my dad. I had the best seat in the house.) to "Name one thing that you'd like to do before you die." (Have a gallery showing for my paintings.)

Angela returned to the question about her work. She found it funny how difficult it was to reduce what she did every day to a couple sentences. After several attempts she finally found something that fit. (I visually recreate faces and scenarios for forensic and anthropological investigations using traditional and computer generated techniques. I'm an artist above all else.) She smiled at he answer; it glossed over the less-than-glamorous aspects of her job quite nicely. She clicked the "submit" button and sat the computer to the side, walking to the kitchen for a refill.

When she returned she pulled the laptop back onto her lap and logged onto the site as a registered user for the first time. She was unsurprised by how boring some of the men she had been deemed compatible with seemed. Just as she was reading through the profile of yet another white-collar worker an instant message window popped up.

The man introduced himself as Tony. His picture vaguely reminded her of someone that she knew but she couldn't quite put her finger on who. After a few minutes of conversation, she decided that all of her worries about online dating were unfounded.


	10. 1:07 Caught Off Guard

**_1:07 - _****_The Man on Death Row_**

**

* * *

**

Caught off Guard

I had been employed by this prison for three years. Night shifts were usually calm, as most of the inmates were sleeping. It was a thankless job and the personalities of the men incarcerated here wore on my nerves. Most were angry, outspoken, and aggressive. For the longest time I had believed that Howard was unlike them. I had questioned his guilt.

I had even felt a measure of relief on the man's behalf when Andrew sent me to take him from the imitate room back to his cell.

I had seen the innocent cleared before, though never this late in the process. There was always an air of disbelief and there were usually tears. Howard had neither, just a cocky sneer, not unlike a mob member would wear to a trial where he owned the judge and jury.

After securing Howard in his cell, I returned to the guard's office and took my chair in front of the monitors. The man beside me, Andrew, had been working here for over twenty years. He never so much as flinched when things went wrong.

"Your boy, Epps, wasn't innocent," Andrew said.

"Reasonable doubt and a stay?" I asked.

"No. Guilty as Hell," he said definitively.

I was surprised. "I don't understand."

Andrew didn't say anything, just pointed toward a small television in the corner of the room. The local news anchor mutely chattered away, gesturing to the swamp behind her, which was teeming with FBI forensic technicians. The scrolling banner across the bottom of the screen read, "Epps's execution stayed after remains discovered."

"You've got a lot to learn, kid," Andrew warned, motioning to the monitors, most of which displayed sleeping men, "These stupid little gang-bangers got nothing on that monster." He punctuated his sentence by jabbing a finger at the screen showing Howard. "I was on shift when they first brought him in. He was cool and collected, but I could see the devil in his eyes."

I concentrated on the monitors, watching Howard in particular, until Andrew elbowed me. He pointed toward the television. "That's the man who caught him," he said, indicating an agent in a slightly soiled suit who was refusing to comment to the press.

"Who's she?" I asked, indicating the woman who was with the agent.

Andrew shot me an incredulous look. "Doctor Temperance Brennan. If her books are any indication I'd say she's the one who dug up the remains. There's nothing fresh if she's involved."

The next hour was spent in silence as I contemplated how I had mistaken the man.

Then Howard's attorney, Amy, had arrived, followed closely by the arresting agent, who signed in as Special Agent Seeley Booth, and Dr. Temperance Brennan. The interaction between the three was curious. Amy was understandably upset, but she seemed to orient herself toward Agent Booth. He, in turn, kept a hand on the small of Dr. Brennan's back, paying no attention to Amy outside of what professional courtesy dictated.

I let them in to the visitation room and then went to get Howard from his cell. The man was silent as I walked him to the room. I kept my distance, standing near the door as he spoke with the three of them. I wasn't able to hear all of the conversation, but I could pick up enough to know that he was implying that he wanted Amy to continue to represent him. It wasn't long until she left. The expression on her face was unmistakably rage as she pushed her way past me and out the door. I stepped aside a bit hoping to be able to glean something from the faces of the Agent and the Doctor.

He seemed to be thanking them, but the look on his face said it was a game. Judging by the expressions worn by the other two, they knew it. What followed happened so quickly that I might have had to review it on the security tapes had I not been concentrating so hard on the situation before me. Howard reached a hand out toward Dr. Brennan and in one swift move she took his hand and with a jerk slammed it off the table. I know I was standing there agape, watching Howard curl into a ball, cradling his wrist. There was no question in my mind about his injuries. I had heard the bones snap.

The pair facing him stood and turned in unison toward the door. As they passed me by, I cold hear their conversation.

"Are you going to arrest me for assault?" she asked, completely unshaken by what she had just done.

"From what I saw: purely self-defense," Agent Booth replied, and amused lit in his voice.

"Maybe I shouldn't carry a gun after all," she mused.

"Hell, you can borrow mine," came his muttered reply.

Her eyes lit up slightly at that remark, but she said nothing. They passed through the door, and once they reached the hallway, his hand returned to her back. I watched them walk away for a moment, trying to process what I'd just seen before turning back to Howard.

I escorted him to an empty holding cell in the medical ward. The doctor would take care of his wrist when he arrived in the morning. I found that I didn't feel bad about what had just happened to him. It was surprising the difference a few hours could make.

When I returned to the office, Andrew wordlessly handed me a stack of paperwork.

"What's this?"

"He got hurt on your watch," he said with a shrug.

"He had it coming."

Andrew laughed as he pulled up the video feed from the visitation room on one of the monitors. He entered a few commands on the computer and soon the incident was playing as a loop on one of the smaller screens. "She's a feisty one," he finally commented.

"I thought it was funny that the Agent didn't seem surprised," I allowed.

"You're right," he said, watching the screen closely. "They might work together, but she's just a scientist. You think this has happened before?"

"It wouldn't surprise me in the least."

"I don't think much would after the enlightening you had tonight," he replied with a smirk.

* * *


	11. 1:08 Reflections in a Shoe

_AN: I hated trying to write for this episode in the worst kind of way. I've watched the episode twice, read the script several times, and scrapped at least four ideas, one of which was nearly completely written when I realized that it didn't follow the time line of the trial. Be warned, this is mostly a cop-out. I'll try to keep it brief._

* * *

_**1:08 - The Girl in the Fridge**_

* * *

_AN__: As a brief explanation: I think that Michael's "relationship" with Brennan is an absolute nightmare. It seems to me that he can't have what he wants, so he tries to bring her down to his level by taking what he can get (and then being disappointed when she has no emotional reaction to being used, since she's more-or-less doing the same thing). Everything I wrote for this chapter made him come off looking like a total ass. I suppose this is no exception, though it is the nicest interpretation of him that i could manage._

**Reflections in a Shoe**

The suitcase was almost packed. He was going to Washington D.C. and that meant more for him than just the possibility of a position at GWU. It meant that, for the first time in three years he would get to see the most stubborn, yet beautiful, woman he'd ever met. Being around Temperance was never easy. She was too rational, too insensitive, and a bit too aggressive in bed. She had no problem with telling him what she thought, even when she was wrong. Not that he'd ever known her to be wrong. Regardless, she made no attempt to sugar-coat it when he was the one who was mistaken. Coming from a student, that was a bit hard to swallow.

Michael decided on a peace offering. He knew she wouldn't see the relevance of the gesture. At least that would give him something to hold against her.

He knew the thought was cynical, but he also knew how Temperance worked. She had always had a mind of her own and to a degree he had always hated that about her. Though no one else seemed to see it, to him it was obvious that she had ridden in on the coattails of his career. Once he had taught her everything that he knew, she seemed to forget that everything that she had become was rooted in what he was. She gave him no credit when she received awards. She didn't mention his name when she was interviewed.

He finally found what he was looking for in the back of his closet. He thought back on how the shoe had ended up buried in his closet for three years.

There had been an alumni gala to benefit a floundering local charity. It was the first and only time that such an event was attempted. Neither of them had anyone else to catch up with, but both had attended to support the cause. He had been surprised then how easily things fell back into place with his student-turned-lover. They hadn't spoken in over a year and then, not four hours after they bumped into eachother at the gala, they were right back where they'd left off: tangled in his sheets with articles of clothing thrown haphazardly around the room.

Just as he had begun contemplating another round, she glanced at the alarm clock and hopped out of bed. She began tugging on her clothes, explaining that she had to be at the airport in an hour to catch her flight.

After as much of a search as time would allow, he had lent her a pair of flip-flops and she had left carrying only one shoe. It was a practical choice and unlike many women, she did not complain about how bad they looked with her dress.

He later found her shoe where it had landed in his open clothes hamper. It was hidden beneath his shirt, the only piece of clothing that he had managed to fling in the appropriate direction.

Two weeks later his flip-flops arrived in the mail. There was no note with them. No, "it was good to see you again," or "call me the next time you're going to be in D.C."; not even a "Please return my heel when you find it." It was typically Temperance. No matter what he, and many other men, wished to the contrary, she was not the sort of woman who would see the necessity of it. Not that it was necessary, but anyone who felt anything would have seen it that way.

She was cold, perhaps even heartless. He knew that. He attributed it to her superiority complex, but in the end it didn't matter. If he was looking this from the perspective of an anthropologist, he would recognize that she held an alpha role and happened to lean more toward the male ideals. From the perspective of an average man, she was somewhere between an ice queen and a man-eater.

There was a small twinge of optimism, within him as he shook his head as he zipped the shoebox into his carry-on luggage and slung the bag over his shoulder. With any luck she had changed and if not, maybe they could pick up where they'd left off.


	12. 1:09 Favors

_**1:09 - The Man in the Fallout Shelter**_

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_AN: This one is because of the deer-in-the-headlights look from Booth early in the episode. It's short and mostly mindless, but I wrote it down because it was the only way to get it out of my head._

**Favors**

Women are always asking us men for favors.

It starts with you mother: "Sweetie, please take out the trash." "Son, Go outside and make sure you father doesn't fall off that ladder."

Often your grandmother joins in too: "Will you come over and see if you can fix the television? I can't imagine what happened."

Aunts call to suit their own causes: "Please make sure you wear a _normal_ tie for the family picture this year."

The retiree across the street is no exception: "Would you be a dear and mow my lawn while I'm at my daughter's this summer?"

Co-worker's favors usually seem benign: "Can you get me a stack of folders from the top shelf?" "Hold that elevator!"

Even complete strangers have no problem asking, like the woman leaving the local home improvement store: "Excuse me, sir? Will you help me tie down this lumber?"

I've been told that sisters are worse: "Make him quit picking on me," turns into, "Don't tell dad," which leads to, "Can you introduce me to your fiend?"

As you get older, even little girls want something: "Mister, would you like to buy some girlscout cookies?" "We're trying to raise funds for 4-H."

I used to think that the favors that girlfriends were as bad as it got: "Please put the toilet seat down," was said in a menacing voice, even in my own home. "Do you have to snore so loud?" "Must you _steal_ all of the blankets?" "I'd like you to meet my parents."

Then, Rebecca got pregnant: "I want the crib over here. No, over there." "I know it's three in the morning but I have to have a McDonald's vanilla shake and a box of Fig Newtowns."

I thought I'd heard it all. Nothing could be worse than those favors, right?

Then I met Bones.

I thought that she had blown through her limit of crazy favors: "Full participation in the case… Not just lab work…everything." "I'd like to help you with that." "I'm going to need a bigger bag." "Help me dig." "Don't touch the remains."

Then she turned to me and simply said, "Booth, Will you escort Angela to the Christmas party and make sure she doesn't photocopy her butt?"

She asked it so seriously that I could only draw one conclusion: I'm in way over my head.


	13. 1:09 The True Meaning of Christmas

_**1:09 - The Man in the Fallout Shelter**_

* * *

_AN__: This one is because I see Jack as a reluctant millionaire. He does what he can to hide the fact that he has money and I think that is at least partially because he doesn't like how he came into it. I think he has the potential to be very benevolent, but that he wouldn't want any credit for that. In a rare attempt at consistency, Doug is mentioned. (He shows up in my first Bones fic.) And yes, I thought the woman who visited Hodgins looked like a working-girl._

* * *

**The True Meaning of Christmas**

Quebec? Masseuse? Yeah. Right.

My annual holiday plans didn't need to be common knowledge. As always, my work began just after the fat man in red's ended, right around seven a.m. on Christmas morning. Some years I dressed in a worn work shirt and a pair of ratty jeans to play a delivery truck driver. Some years were as simple as a phone call and setting up a wire transfer. The year Hurricane Isabel hit, I donated to and worked for Habitat for Humanity. This year was a major undertaking as well, only this time I was only being guided by a set of seventy-year-old blueprints and some vague advice from an interior designer and a contractor.

"They told you that I was a motivational speaker of some kind. They lied. I told my friends that I was going to be spending my holiday in a little chalet in Canada. As you can see, I wasn't telling the truth either." I looked back across the dining room of the group home. Thirty-six teenagers looked back at me: Thirty-six teenagers who were just as alone I had been at their age. The only difference was money. The three adults who oversaw this home knew that better than anyone.

"My name isn't important. For the sake of the next few days, just call me Nick," I always told whoever I chose to help to call me Nick, as in Saint Nick. It was my own private joke, even though it wasn't really that funny. "I was born into money. I lost my parents in the accident when I was still a kid. I was raised in the house, mostly under the guidance of a nanny, a cook, and a butler that were on the company payroll. Their company and their money came into my hands on my eighteen. I hated the money, all I wanted was my family, but I was the only one left. The stockholders and CEOs wanted me to take a bigger part in the company. I wanted to go to college. So I did.

"Now I work in a lab, but honestly, I wouldn't have had to work a day in my life if I didn't want to. It probably doesn't make much sense to you, but I do hate the money. I didn't earn it and that bothers me. Every year, since I came into it, I've given a chunk of it away. The Christmas that I was eighteen, I set up a fund to run three no-kill animal shelters in Washington D.C., all of which are still open today. Last year, I bought an open MRI machine for a VA hospital in Virginia.

"The truth is, I know that a lot of times that government funding isn't enough. It's a simple fact that even you know, but somehow the big-wigs in Washington can't figure it out. That's why I'm here. Money can't by you happiness, but it can buy comfort. I'm not saying that I can fix everything, or anything at all, but I do want to do something for you."

"What exactly?" came a voice from the second row of teens.

I felt myself smile. "I came here today in a box-truck, and some of you might have noticed the two tractor-trailers and the roll-off dumpster across the street. Among other things, those trucks contain paint, furniture, appliances…"

"So what? You're giving us stuff to make this place look better? Doesn't really change anything."

"I'm not done. I have a week off. You're all off school for that week. You help me, I help you."

"What do you mean?"

"We're going to clean, paint, and put together furniture. It's going to be a long week. I've got contractors coming tomorrow to re-do the bathrooms and fix the two broken windows that you reported last year as well as update some of the wiring. At the end of the week, I'll see to it that you each have a new book bag, suitcase, school supplies, laptop computer, transit pass, and gift cards to be put toward clothes and shoes, with a couple stipulations on what you can buy.

"I'm also setting up a fund in this home's name. Provided that, from this day on, you keep a good grade point average, stay out of trouble, pass random drug tests, do some community service, and apply for scholarships, it will pay for you to go to a community college or a technical school: books, housing, food, everything. If you want to go on after that, so long as you keep up the requirements, it keeps paying: straight through to a master's degree if you want it. The fund will also pay for the same things for anyone else who comes here later. I have paperwork that lines up all the details, but that's the gist of it," I looked across the room at three-dozen disbelieving faces and three adults nearly in tears. "I do something like this every year. This is your year. The company calls it a tax write-off. I call it an investment. Does anyone have any questions?"

One of the adults, a woman in her early fifties, stepped forward. "How does this affect us since we're government funded?"

"It's called semi-privatization. My lawyers and your senator assure me that you will not lose any state funding because of what I'm doing. The only thing that I'm asking from you is that you keep quiet about this until after I go home and you make sure that no one associates me with this. I don't want any credit for this. This isn't something that I do for myself. Any other questions?"

Another adult, a man in his late twenties whose hair was worked into thin braids that he kept pulled back in a ponytail, called out, "Where do we start?"

"I wanted to start with the wood floors, but the contractors said we'd have to clear the building for three days because of the chemicals and dust and that's not a possibility with the amount of time that we have, so we start with patching the drywall and painting. The kitchen and basement need to be done first."

"The basement?" asked one of the younger girls.

"Yes. That's where the freezer, washers, and dryers are going, along with the Foosball and ping-pong tables. After that we'll move on to the office and common areas. Then we'll split up into the bedrooms."

"You're serious, aren't you?" asked one of the older boys.

"Dude, I bought six-dozen pillows. and three-dozen mattress. They delivered them to me on skids and set them off the truck with a forklift. If I'm going to let some delivery guy look at me funny when I sign for that kind of an order, you best believe I'm serious. Now, if they're aren't any more questions, let's go get the paint. I promise I didn't pick out any wild colors."

* * *

Eight days later I collapsed onto my own bed for the first time in a week. I'd slept on a futon in the common room on the main floor of the group home for seven nights and I had a crick in my back that made me wish for the masseuse that I had told my colleagues about.

My holiday had started with fears about a long-forgotten disease; paying Doug and what most would consider an obscene amount of money to fly out and pick up Zack's family; and hiring a woman who I had met once while entertaining one of Cantilever's bigger, and more repulsive, investors at a local gentlemen's club to play the role of my girlfriend for the sake of appearances. It followed through with moving more furniture than I'd ever seen outside of a showroom and inhaling more paint fumes than anyone should. We had done it all; from patching drywall, to assembling eighteen bunk beds, to installing wireless internet and the required blockers and filters, to cooking a huge meal on New Year's Day. That's not to mention the barrage of questions that I'd answered and the litany advice I'd doled out.

I was exhausted. I'd ruined three pair of jeans and four shirts. A thirteen-year-old boy named Denzel had splattered paint in my eye. Janice, the older lady who worked in the office, slammed my finger in the drawer of one of her new filing cabinets. One of the girls, a strawberry-blonde named Abby, set the corner of a dresser down on my toe; I was pretty sure it was broken.

All in all, I'd never been happier. Presents, cider, trees, and carols were all nice in their own respect, but for me _this_ was the meaning of Christmas.


	14. 1:10 Eye of the Beholder

_**1:10 - The Woman at the Airport**_

* * *

**Eye of the Beholder**

When the phone call came in I was requested by name. That happens sometimes. When you're good at your job, word gets around. I met him by the hotel pool, just as requested. That also happens sometimes. As strange as it may sound, in my business men are looking for companionship as often as they are a no-strings-attached roll in the sheets or a fulfillment of fantasies that their full-time lover won't submit to. At first I assumed that he was like many others, slightly uncomfortable with calling an unknown woman looking for release, so I played along. I made small talk and acted a little shy, just like those sort of men usually want.

His questions turned a bit more pointed. So it wasn't a shy woman that he wanted, it was someone to play witness to his cop. It wasn't a role I'd found myself in before. Guys that are into playing the cop usually want a bad girl that they can cuff to the bed, but a girl's got to know how to adapt. I opted for acting weak and worried, when really I was neither. He wanted someone he could protect, so I acted like I needed him.

Then he pulled out a badge. It wasn't a plastic prop and for a moment I panicked. It wasn't that I hadn't been in this situation before. I'd done business with officers and agents, sometimes even after being questioned about an unrelated incident. Still, I knew what I had done would be seen as wrong. It wasn't though; all is fair in love and war and that goes doubly for a war caused by love.

It wasn't long until I realized that he wasn't like any of the cops I'd come across. I didn't realize just how different until he'd passed me off as his sister to one of the security guys. After a remark like that, I was almost certain that he had no interest in taking things back up to his room. He ordered us a drink, which also surprised me. I finally couldn't keep from asking, "So we're just going to sit here and have a drink? That's all?"

"That's all, Leslie," he assured me. He looked me in the eye. I couldn't remember the last time a man had held eye contact with me. "Have a drink, enjoy the view, pretend we belong, and later, we'll catch a murderer." Something in his voice was sad, almost as he pitied me for the life that I led. The way he looked at me was startling. I could tell that he feared I might be the next victim.

Despite his tone, his last remark gave me a tight feeling in the chest. For this man it was possible. Most cops, when presented with someone who looks like I do or someone in my line of work, lose their focus. He did not. He was single minded about this case.

Or maybe it was me. Maybe I wasn't his type. Maybe I wasn't beautiful enough for him. I had no doubts about his orientation; after all, he hadn't made a pass at the waiter or the security guy. He wore no ring.

That only left me: Me and the beginings of crow's feet; the slight crook to my nose; the celulite that covered my thighs; and the uneven curve of my lips.

Once again, I knew stood to lose everything because I wasn't beautiful.


	15. 1:10 Fiction

_AN: Because I wanted to add to the story of Trisha Finn... no matter how she annoyed me, I like to think that Booth's little rant opened her eyes.**

* * *

**_

**1:10 - The Woman at the Airport**

* * *

**Fiction**

Trisha sat at the bar, holding a bottle of beer in one hand and her badge in the other. It was painfully obvious to her that this wasn't her scene.

Usually her Friday night plans involved a flirty little dress and a club on the upscale side of town or a pair of jeans, a cute top, and the little coffee shop near her apartment. She went to club on the nights that she wanted to be surrounded by the city's beautiful people. The coffee shop was reserved for the nights that she was feeling inspired and wanted to work on her screenplay.

Tonight was different. She had no desire to be around the movie stars or the starving artists. Instead of going home after work and taking a shower before going out, she had driven straight to this bar from the office.

Four years with the bureau and this was her first time in a so-called cop-bar. The bartender had recognized her as a new face and had introduced himself as Kelvin Green. He was a talkative fellow and by her second bottle she had learned that he had spent twenty-two years with the LAPD before he'd opened the out-of-the-way pub.

Trisha studied the room behind her, at least what she could see of it in the mirror that hung behind the bar. She was almost surprised to be able to pick out several coworkers. Tyson Harris and his partner Blake Watkins worked in organized crime. Blake had tried to drag her here after the first case she solved. He had claimed that going to The Alibi was tradition. She had declined. Gene Harper, who sat with the partners, occupied the office two doors down from hers and the woman beside him, his fiancée Joan Carr, was the director's right hand. There were other familiar faces and some that left a vague feeling of déjà vu. It wasn't just federal agents, several local and state cops were scattered among the tables. Some of them she'd seen at crime scenes, but many more that she'd never met before.

Kelvin came over with another beer and gently eased the badge from her hand. He glanced down at it briefly and then looked up at her. "Talk to me missy."

"What?"

"I've never seen you in here before, but this ID says you've been with the bureau for quite a while. It doesn't usually take people so long to find their way through my door, if they come at all. And let me tell you, your buddies over there usually drag every newbie in here after their first case. They don't all stay regulars, but I see a good many of the FBI's finest from time to time. What took you so long?"

"I don't know."

"Let me help you answer that sweetie," he said, "There's only two times that an agent stares at their badge like that. When they first get it and when they're wondering if they should get rid of it. Seeing as you've had it for years… "

"I had to work a case with an agent and a squint from D.C."

The old man smiled knowingly, "And I take it they do things a bit differently."

"It's not so much that," she admitted. "The agent, he said it was just about how I saw the job, but… he didn't like _me_."

"Oh?"

"You know how things are out here. Everyone wants to be in the business. I might have mentioned that I was working on a script."

"And he had a problem with it?"

"Yes. But it was more than that. He was good at this. Hell," she said, taking a swig of her beer, "even his squint was good at this. Anymore… I'm not so sure if I'm cut out for it."

"Surely you got into this for a reason."

She shrugged.

Kelvin smiled, pulled the bottle from her grasp, and slid her badge across the bar. "Do you need me to call you a cab?"

"No, I'll take another beer though."

He smiled. "Not tonight, sweetie. You go home and while you're still sober enough to do it, read over your script and think over your last case."

"What?"

"Everyone out here thinks they can do something great on the screen. This is how you figure out if you're right. Go home. Call off work tomorrow; you're no use to the force in your current state of mind. Make yourself a pot of coffee. You'll be up all night reading."

"What?"

"Go."

She didn't know what about this man was so compelling, but she followed his advice.

* * *

Two hours later she was at home, with her script spread out across her living room floor. She was surprised that she hadn't seen it before. The plot was uninspired. The dialogue was bland. The characters were terribly one-dimensional. Even the casework was missing something.

Trisha slid the papers back into their folder. She put the folder in a box and then hoisted the box onto the top shelf of her closet, pushing it into the far back corner. It had crossed her mind to burn the file, but she felt she should keep it around, just incase she needed to refresh her memory as to why she had made this decision.

She had been right to take Kelvin's advice. It wasn't hard to see that that reality, especially the events of the past few days, far exceeded her attempt at fiction.

* * *

A week later she slid onto a barstool at the Alibi. The case had been exhausting but she was left with a new sense of accomplishment.

"Trisha," the bartender greeted her. "Good to see you again. I take it you've worked everything out?"

"Yes. I have."

"I suppose I don't have to ask what decision you came to since you're here."

"No, you don't."

He slid a bottle of beer across the bar to her. "So I've got myself another regular then?"

"I suppose you do."

"And your script?"

"Life is more interesting than it," she said tipping her bottle up for a drink. "But who knows, maybe by the time I'm your age, I'll have found something worth writing about."


	16. 1:11 Definitions

_**1:11 - The Woman in the Car**_

* * *

_AN: This does not exactly fit in with the timeline. I'm a little fuzzy as to when Booth joined the FBI vs. Parker's age. For the sake of this one-shot, my assumptions were that Booth was employed by the NY field office (even though I can't find any evidence of him working anywhere but in D.C.) and asked to be transferred to DC around Parker's first birthday. Howard Epps is what throws a monkey wrench in that timeline, so for the sake of this, assume that Booth put him in jail while working in NY. After this I promise we'll return to the actual timeline and NY will fall by the wayside. It may seem petty, but it bothers me to use such inconsistencies._

* * *

**Definitions **

I thought that I understood Seeley Booth the first time that I saw him. At the time he was just the man two pews in front of me; sitting nearer the window than the aisle, with a toddler on his lap. Most children would have been in the church's nursery or crying, forcing their parents to step out of the sanctuary during mass, but this little boy was perfectly behaved. I saw a single father who was raising his son in the church. He struck me as the sort of man who spent his days in an office and his evenings trying to be both a father and a mother: A genuine Mr. Mom.

The second time that I saw him was when his picture stared back at me from the inside of a personnel file stamped 'TRANSFER' that I found on my on my desk the following Monday morning. I was surprised that the profile I had made of the man in church had differed so much from his actual story: Alter-boy turned Rangers Sniper; ex-POW; recovering gambling addict; college education; three years in the New York office with an early promotion to Special Agent; over a dozen commendations from the Army and nearly half as many from the FBI. It was enough to make my head spin. Special Agent Booth had been candid about his reason for requesting the transfer, 'to be closer my son.' I scanned the case log and found that it did not disappoint. The attached letter from New York's Director had shed even more light on Seeley Booth. He was a hard man to impress and I knew when he made statements like, "said he would rather be a beat cop than be away from his son;" "genuinely empathetic toward victims, but otherwise has the tenacity of a pit bull;" and my personal favorites, "raw, instinct-driven investigator who knows that truth and justice are not relative;" and "strongly believes in the integrity and honor of the force," I had been gifted the perfect agent. If Special Agent Booth had Director Jenson singing his praises, he must be nearing sainthood.

It took quite a while for me to realize that my second assumption was nearly as wrong as my first. It didn't take long after he began fieldwork to find that he was not an easy man to work with, but I took that in stride. Some couldn't stand his instinctual approach, even though his 'gut' was as accurate as any I'd ever seen. However, in most cases Booth wasn't the problem. He was a very forward man, and over the years I learned things about my agents that I'd never suspected. Agent Franco didn't consider a lunch break complete without at least two bottles of beer, though usually three or four. Agent Adams spent stakeouts on the phone with various girlfriends, who he appeared to be juggling. Agent Desoto, who I had always believed was fine example of women in the bureau, was more than willing to trade sexual favors for her partner verifying extra hours on her time card.

Of course trouble never comes alone, around the same time that I came to realize that Booth's near-obsession with justice made him almost impossible to partner with another agent, I was began problems with the squints at the Jeffersonian. It all came to a head over a four-week period. During that month there were four cases that required the Jeffersonian's assistance and I had three agents who had refused to go back into the lab. I can remember it clearly. It was a Thursday. I had just swallowed two aspirin, trying to ward off the onset of a tension headache, when my phone rang. Agent Jacobs called in to tell me that he was on his way to the hospital. He had gotten a bit too close the remains and the lady squint had broken his arm. He was furious, as was to be expected. I wasn't far from irate myself. Jacobs went off on a tangent, retelling the complaints that I had heard from the three previous agents. "She's cold. She's too analytical. Everything has to be about the evidence. She doesn't care about the human element at all. She's worse than Booth. I mean, she actually…" I had cut him off, "Wait. What did you say?" "I said she's every bit as hard to work with as Booth. She might even be worse. She's his polar opposite and she's crazy! All I did was move a rib to get a better look at where the bullet nicked it." I cut the conversation short. As I redirected Jacobs to the HR department, I felt myself smile in a way that I hadn't since receiving Booth's file.

Several months and a few bumpy patches later, I stood watching the lady squint and the agent that I still couldn't define. They were changing everything in the department and I was getting a front-row seat as to how. The pair was dealing with the father of a kidnapped boy. Booth was nearly in the man's face; in that moment he was as much a father as he was an agent. Dr. Brennan was hanging back, almost as though she anticipated the man saying something wrong and she was staying out of harm's way. There was a certain thrill to watching the way that those two worked together. It was hard to believe that a few short months ago I had considered transferring him out of the D.C. office and severing ties with the Jeffersonian. I drew my attention back to the matter at hand when Booth asked the man for a password; he wanted a way to let the boy know that he was safe. After thinking for only a moment, the frightened father said, "Paladin."

It was the word that I'd been searching for since I'd first met Booth. I couldn't help but say it aloud. "Paladin: defender of the faith, protector. It suits you, Booth." He gave me a sheepish look that told me that my assessment was correct. I left the room, leaving Booth and his squint to finish up with the father. Just as I was closing the door I heard the doctors voice, "Know what? You tough guys are all very sentimental."

I had to laugh to myself, even though she had hit the nail on the head. It had taken me years to finally put a word to what Booth was. Now I was stuck looking for a definition for her.


	17. 1:11 Who are these people?

**_1:11 - The Woman in the Car_**

* * *

_AN: The repercussions of asking about the Cuban, who's name escapes me at the moment, from Pickering's point of view. Starts with the line: "I'm supposed to wait here until someone comes to destroy my notes." Not the best thing that I've ever written by a long shot, but I decided to share regardless._

* * *

**Who Are These People?**

I was just doing my job.

That was the first thing that went through my mind at the sound of the voice on the other end of the phone. I had expected, at worst, to have my superior tell me to not ask about the Cuban. Instead I got the director, telling me to not move until someone comes to destroy my notes.

This was, by far, not the easiest assignment that I'd been sent on.

Jack Hodgins, the conspiracy theorist, was abrasive in an over-excited-puppy sort of way. It wasn't necessary to interview him, despite how he objected. I hadn't been lying when I told him that we'd already checked him out. The findings, I had lied about. His official file did not read 'harmless'. No one with the money and connections that he had was ever labeled as harmless, but he was still a non-threat.

The artist had been interesting. Yes, interesting was a polite enough word for Ms. Montenegro. She was flighty, fickle, and a bit too open. She was also the first person who I'd ever met who was surprised to find out that she was married. That seems like the sort of thing one should realize. She seemed adamant that this was something that could be explained away by a ceremony of some sort in Fiji. What did I know about Fiji? She was unstable, as most artists are, but not a threat.

And then there was Mr. Addy. Social underdevelopment paired with an astonishingly high IQ is never a good thing. I suspected Aspberger's Syndrome, or something like it, but I didn't have the credentials to diagnose such things. It was awkward enough to have to interview him in a room full of remains, but to have him handling them as he spoke to me was a bit creepy. When he mentioned his dual majors and in a cool, sarcastic tone asked if I was concerned that he might build a race of robots. It caught me off guard. I suspected there was something behind his exterior that should be monitored.

Of course, that left me with Dr. Brennan. She was a professional, apparently the best in her field. I assumed, when I was handed her file, that it would be a simple, perhaps even enjoyable interview. Then I began looking through it. Guatemala, China, Kosovo, Kenya, Vietnam, the list of countries that she had visited went on and on. All were war zones at the time or not long before she arrived. Then _his_ name stood out, nearly jumping off the page at me. I knew that this could be the break my career needed. The question had seemed harmless at the time.

When a man opened the office door, held out his ID and badge, and greeted me with a brusque, "Pickering," I stood to follow him. He took the notes that I had complied before directing me out of the office. The dark van parked outside was a surprise. He opened the back and ushered me inside. The man inside pointed to a chair beside a desk containing a polygraph machine. I knew what was coming and did not argue as he attached the various sensors.

"Is your last name Pickering?" the tech asked.

"Yes."

"Do you work for the department of the interior?"

"Yes."

"What is your security clearance?"

"Level Two."

The man operating the machine nodded to the agent who had led me from Dr. Brennan's office, who quickly took over the interview. "Do you know why you're here?"

"Not entirely."

"Do you have any idea who you were asking about?" the man asked, throwing a cautious look at the tech.

"Yes," I responded, understanding that the tech did not know who we were talking about.

"Where do you know the name from?"

"He was mentioned in case files that I was asked to review."

"Do you know why he is a person of interest?"

"He's a drug dealer and a gang warlord. Wanted in four countries including this one."

The man regarded me carefully for a moment, and I was certain from his look that I didn't know the whole story. "Do you know why it was a problem to ask Doctor Brennan about him?" he asked.

"No," I answered honestly.

"Were you aware that nearly all information regarding the work Doctor Brennan has done for us in abroad is classified as Top Secret?"

I felt my eyes widen in surprise and I was sure that the line on the polygraph had just jumped significantly. "No."

"Are these all your notes?" he asked, holding up the file that he had taken from me.

"Yes."

"Good," he said, looking over the polygraph technician's shoulder. The tech pointed to something that I could not see and then the agent nodded. He turned away and began sliding my papers one by one into a crosscut paper shredder as the tech unhooked the sensors.

"The remains of your notes will be incinerated within an hour. You are not to attempt to recreate notes any portion of the interviews that you conducted today from memory. You were not assigned to interview Doctor Brennan about anything other than the character of her colleagues. She has been an asset to us in the past. You will be reassigned; another Agent will be taking over these interviews. Are we clear?"

I found myself thinking back on the doctor who I had interviewed earlier. She had seemed awkward and slightly out of touch with the world around her to me. Was I loosing my knack for this job? Who was this woman? What kind of power did she hold? "Yes." I managed.

"Good. There is an agent is waiting outside this van. He will accompany you to your car. You will let him drive. He will be escorting you to you appointment with the director. If you do not attend, a warrant will be issued for your arrest."

"Yes, sir."

"Henderson?" he called.

The rear door swung open. "Sir?"

"Take Pickering to her meeting."

"Yes, Sir."

I glanced toward the Jeffersonian in time to see Dr. Brennan climbing into the passenger seat a black SUV. She appeared to be berating the man who held open the door. When we reached the parking garage, the artist was sitting in a small, sporty blue import listening to southern rock music that was turned up a bit too loud. Dr. Hodgins and Mr. Addy were getting into an original Mini Cooper as they argued loudly about particulates on a severed finger.

I felt myself flinch. Their assessments had come back fairly normal, but it was obvious now that they weren't.

What had I missed?

Who are these people?


	18. 1:12 Novel Research

_**1:12 - The Superhero in the Alley**_

* * *

**Novel Research**

The bookstore was disorganized and slightly dingy. It was not the sort of place that he was accustomed to purchasing printed materials from. It had seemed wrong somehow to ask after such materials in his local Barnes and Nobel, where the staff knew him by both name and face as he had a running order of forensic, anthropological, and engineering books.

He turned to the internet for help and, after a brief ride in a cab, he found himself standing in the middle of Comic Galaxy. He did not understand their cataloguing system. X-Men was shelved before Captain America, which came before Spiderman but after Superman. He allowed that their names at least, were interesting, though he wondered after the origins of some: The Green Lantern and The Clock, seemed unlikely heroes. A man who seemed to be made of stone stared back from one cover while a large, angry, green man was featured on another. There were women in jumpsuits, women in bikinis, and the shadowy form of one who seemed to not be there at all. He picked several issues at random and then moved on.

In another section of the store to find covers of books that featured anatomically incorrect animals. There was a rabbit with long skinny hind legs and a gray cat with opposable thumbs. The thought of Teenage Mutant Ninja, well anything, troubled him to a degree, but he added an issue featuring the bipedal shelled reptiles along with one that's cover depicted a black duck smoking a cigar to his stack and one that showed a small brown mouse drinking iced tea in a lazy chair.

Another section housed selections from different cultures, and often in different languages. He questioned the validity of the translations as he looked over the issues that were in English. Eventually he added another dozen to his stack. Among them were a small novel-sized issue with a man in a cargo vest with shock-white hair who had a lopsided headband and a navy mask covering most of his face, a smaller issue that had three unnaturally proportioned girls with impossibly long hair wearing naval-inspired attire, and another novel sized book with a blonde teen dressed in all black and carrying a massive sword to his pile.

He walked past other merchandise: tee shirts and stuffed animals mostly, before he stopped short of yet another perplexing display. If it had been near Halloween he might have written it off, but seeing the same outfits that he'd come across looking for books replicated to fit adult humans caught him off guard. It wasn't just clothing, he noted, but also signet rings, wigs, and mock weapons. He touched the wooden blade that was clearly intended to replicate the one of the cover of the last book he had selected before turning toward the register.

A young man looked up from his reading at the stack that Zack had set down before him. "You must be new to the area, I'd have remember someone with as wide a range of tastes as you."

"I don't understand."

"You've got a little bit of everything. It really runs the gamut."

"It does? Good."

The cashier looked up at him, as though seeking an explanation.

"I'm doing some research. It only makes sense to pull from a wide range of sources."

"Riiight," the cashier said, as he stuffed the issues into two generous plastic bags. "That'll be one-oh-three, seventy-two."

The exact change was on the counter before the cashier had even finished his request. He smiled up at Zack. "I knew you had to be a regular somewhere."

"On the contrary, I simply did the calculation in my head as I was shopping," he said, picking up his bags. "Thank you."

* * *

He didn't understand the way that his fingers itched to open one of the issues on the cab ride back to his apartment, but he resisted. Even after he got inside and set the bags on the table, the contents seemed to taunt him as he called in his order for a pizza.

The willpower over his own curiosity lasted until he hung up the phone. When the delivery guy showed up, less than twenty minutes later, he answered the door with a book in his hand. Zack handed the kid his money and accepted his pizza, barely being bothered to look away from the pages.

Several hours later he had learned that the average person completely misunderstood the effects of radiation on the human body; was suddenly and irrationally leery of people with heterochromia; had gained a new appreciation for Dr. Brennan's Halloween costume; and had received an inoculation of pop culture the likes of which he had never expected. But most of all, he found that he wanted to be telekinetic.


	19. 1:13 Don't Shoot the Messenger

_**1:13 - The Woman in the Garden**_

* * *

_AN__: I know this scene is used a bit much, but nearly every fic I've seen about it has Booth protecting Brennan because he loves her. I don't know that he realizes that he does quite yet. When I re-watched the scene with him getting out of the car and following Ortez into the alley, I didn't think it looked purposeful, but rather like he was being propelled by something else. Anyway, I took this approach because I've never seen this written from this POV. _

* * *

**Don't Shoot the Messenger**

I might have only been with the bureau for two weeks, but when I walked onto the floor of the Hoover Building that housed the organized crime department I knew I should have just stepped right back into the elevator and went back to my floor. Instincts didn't matter at this point though; my superior needed post-it notes and red pens, and the supply closet on our floor was out of both. I didn't have a choice.

I walked past a group of agents in the walkway between cubicles. I could tell from their posture that they were arguing. I tried to not pay attention to what was being said, but it was a little hard to ignore.

"…you tell him."

"I'm not crazy."

The brief moment of silence that followed was unnerving. I plucked a box of pens from the shelf and made a note of it on the inventory clipboard. Then the conversation restarted.

"Don't look at me," a new voice insisted. "I know what he did for a living before he joined the bureau."

"Franklin?"

"Forget it," piped up the fourth man. "You know what everyone says about him and that squint. I've seen Booth mad before. There's no way."

"Would you rather he found out after the fact that we knew and didn't tell him?"

"Why don't you tell him? You're the one who got the information."

"Because that's what I have underlings like you for."

I drew in a deep breath and left the closet. I'd made it almost to the elevator when the first man that spoke cornered me. "Moss, you're up on the same floor as Major Crimes aren't you?"

"Yes."

"Good. I need to get a message to Agent Booth. Have you met him yet?"

I nodded mutely. When they'd been showing me around the office on my first day I watched him roughly haul a man, who I recognized from the bowling alley that I'd frequented in college, into the building and all but throw him into an interrogation room. He had snarled, 'I'll deal with him after I cool off,' to another agent and slinked off to his office, ushering a dark haired woman in front of him, and slamming the door behind them.

"Great! Can you deliver a message from our department to him?"

"Sh- sure."

The man smiled victoriously and took the post-it notes from my hand and scrawled a short message on the top one. "Just tell him that as soon as possible."

"Alright," I complied, trying to make my escape as hasty as possible. As soon as the doors slid shut, I read the message. I could feel the blood drain from my face. The elevator ride was spent trying to calm myself. I knew it was bureau policy to not shoot the messenger, but from what I'd heard Agent Booth wasn't always one to comply with policy.

I stepped onto my floor with most of my composure only to loose it again with the next conversation that caught my attention.

"I'm not kidding."

"No squint is going to deck a gang-banger."

"I'm friends with Atwood down in security. He showed me the tapes. And don't even get me started about what I heard from the guards after the Epps case."

"I don't think he's lying, Karl," another man joined in. "Gibson from Homeland Security is on my bowling team. He was really giving Booth a hard time over how the lady scientist had worked him over a couple months ago."

"I wouldn't mind her working me over."

"Not like that! He ended up having to make three trips to the chiropractor. Bowled his worst game of the season that night."

"Man, don't let Booth hear you say something like that," a third agent cut in.

"Yeah. I know. Those two act like they're married."

"He's not even tapped that yet."

"You're shitting me."

"Last I heard he was with some lawyer. That ended right around the time he wrapped up the Mount/Taylor double homicide."

"That's been months!"

"Bowled with him last week. Trust me. He's not getting any."

"I've worked under them at a couple crime scenes. I've seen the way the two of them are together. I give it six months."

"Twenty bucks says it's less than two."

"Make it fifty…"

He shuddered at the implications of what he'd just heard. I strode across the office as quickly as I could, not wanting to be dragged into a betting pool on top of what I'd already gotten myself into today.

I found Agent Booth waiting for one of the elevators on the opposite side of the floor. I drew in a breath before approaching him. "Booth?"

"Yeah?"

There was no turning back now. "Message from the Gang Task Force Unit." I fumbled with the paper for a moment, making sure I was getting the gang's name right. "Mara Muerte has put a hit out on your lady scientist."

"Oh, man," he said. His hands shook slightly when he took the paper from me.

That was not the reaction that I'd feared. "You got a response?"

"Yeah, just tell 'em...tell 'em I got the message and tell 'em thanks." I could almost see him tensing as he spoke. I knew better than to linger.

"Sure," I walked away, turning to watch him pace around the small lobby before forcing himself to sit on the bench. He was down for all of thirty seconds when he jumped to his feet and bolted toward the stairwell as though he couldn't be bothered to wait for the elevator. I'd heard that he use to be in the Army and he'd left looking like a compliant new recruit that drill sergeant had just barked out orders to.

I couldn't help but wonder what had come over him. Then I thought back on the conversation I'd heard only minutes before. His squint must really be something.


	20. 1:14 Best Laid Plans

_**1:14 - The Man on the Fairway**_

* * *

**Best Laid Plans**

I was going through my to-do list for the day and watching the noontime news. I should clean the bathroom and trim the hedges around the front of the house, but first thing was first. Enough time had passed. It was high time I borrowed the neighbors truck and got rid of that freezer. I might even swing by Home Depot and get a new one. The weather report came on: eighty percent chance of rain. There went that plan...

Suddenly everything sounded much quieter than it had minutes ago and the hair on the back of my neck stood up. Something wasn't right. When you've spent as long as I have passively avoiding the law, you get a sort of sixth sense that lets you know when they're outside your door. I stood from the couch and made my way to the back door, glancing over my shoulder from time to time, anticipating someone kicking down my front door.

Once I got into the kitchen, I stopped looking back. I knew that I was to the point in the house where I could make it out the back before someone coming in the front could get to me. An unexpected knock came at the door. It surprised me. If they knew what I'd done, they wouldn't be knocking. When I looked back, I ran into a chair. It tipped over before I could catch it, landing on the floor with a loud crash.

I quit worrying about taking my time getting out the back. I knew they'd already heard me. Whoever was on my porch would be coming around the back, knowing that I'd run. Any cop worth his badge would come around the left, it was the shortest path. That meant I was going right.

I heard heavy footsteps behind me and turned to look back. I didn't realize my mistake until my head snapped back and the rest of my body followed. In the last moment before I hit the ground, I saw something between fear and pride flash across the face of the man who had been chasing me.

I laid there, flat on my back, glaring into the sun, with something pressing down on my throat. The smell of dirt and leather let me know it was a shoe.

A female vice drifted down to me. "I feel like kicking him."

"That's normal after a pursuit. We try to not do that," the man said, sounding like he was fighting back a laugh.

_Try?!_

I looked up the leg that was keeping me pinned to the ground, finding a strikingly beautiful brunette. I never like assertive women, no matter what they looked like.

The man rolled me over, cuffed my wrists together, and pulled me to my feet, reciting my wrists as he steered me toward a black SUV.

The only thought that occurred to me as I was rather roughly stuffed into the back of the SUV, was that this was, by no means, the way I'd planned to spend today.


	21. 1:15 Escape

_AN__: I'm terribly sorry for this not being up earlier. All that I can really say for myself is that life got in the way._

* * *

_**1:15-Two Bodies in the Lab**_

* * *

**Escape**

I pushed my chair away from the edge of the bed as Booth pulled the sensors from his chest. A machine in the corner started to sound an alarm.

"Shut that damn thing off," he ground out between his gritted teeth.

I turned from silencing the heart rate monitor, just in enough time to see him pull the IV needle out.

"There'll be bandages in one of those drawers."

"Right." After a little searching I tossed a roll of tape and a bag of cotton balls at him.

"Bones grabbed my gym bag out of the SUV. It's in the closet."

I tossed the bag toward the bed, where Booth sat struggling with the roll of tape. He looked at up at me, as close to pleading as I'd ever seen him. "We don't have time for this. You do it," he insisted, tossing the tape to me with one hand.

I taped the cotton ball over the small hole left behind by the needle and stuffed the first aid supplies back in their drawer. When he turned back around, Booth had worked himself halfway into his sweats and there was a nurse standing in the doorway.

"And just what do you two think you're doing?" she asked. Booth's attention snapped toward the voice. The nurse was a somewhat older and much angrier version of Queen Latifah in pink and green scrubs. "Get back in that bed. Are you crazy?"

"My partner's in trouble. I have to go."

"Boy, I was here when you came in yesterday. Went and got yourself blown up, God only knows how. If that pretty little thing that was in here with you is in trouble, call the cops, call the FBI, I don't care. Just get back in bed."

"I _am_ FBI. My badge should be in with my effects."

I silently tossed the envelope that was tucked in the small closet beside his duffel onto the bed. Booth winced as he opened it.

"I don't care. You're not going anywhere."

"I'll refuse treatment, if that's what it takes."

"You have no business…"

"Don't argue with him," I finally interjected. "There's no use."

"And just who are you?"

"Dr. Jack Hodgins. Just get the papers. We'll meet you at the desk."

She sighed in defeat. "Will he be released into your care?"

I nodded, not about to imply that my degree wouldn't mean anything if something went wrong.

"Fine," she snapped, turned on her heel, and then exited the room.

A shadow of a grin crossed Booth's face.

"Don't start. I'm sure you do the same thing with your badge from time to time."

"I just tried. It didn't work," he paused for a moment. "You're going to have to put my shoes on. Don't bother with the socks. No time."

I nodded and he pulled himself upright with his feet dangling off the bed. Sitting up seem to be a chore for him. "Are you going to be able to walk, man?"

"Of course I am. My legs are mostly fine, I just know I'll pull my shoulder out again if I try to pull on those shoes. Quit wasting time!"

I shoved his shoes on his feet. It was a surprisingly difficult task. He kicked my hands away as I tried to tie them, giving me a stern look.

"I know, but if you trip over the laces…"

"Just tuck them in and grab my sweat jacket."

I wasn't about to try to argue with him again. I shoved the laces down in the tops of his sneakers and then turned toward the gym bag, rooting around for the jacket. When I turned back around, Booth had managed pull himself off the bed and was leaning heavily in the doorframe. The look in his eyes was slightly crazed and I didn't have to see a lab report to know how much adrenaline was coursing through his veins.

He nodded encouragingly and held out his hand for the jacket. I obliged before pushing past him to the desk. I scanned the paperwork quickly as he struggled to catch up. There was nothing saying that he couldn't check himself back in. That was good; it meant we wouldn't have to take him across town to the other hospital when this was all over with.

"Where do I…?" he asked, gesturing to the pen.

I pointed at the lines that he was to sign and he all but threw the paperwork at the startled nurse. He started down the hall toward the elevator before yelling, "Get the car, I'm we don't have time for me to be hobbling through the parking lot."

"Right," I muttered, stepping around him again and taking the two flights of stairs down. I didn't look back to see if it was Booth stepping out of the elevator that dinged behind me when I reached the first floor. Instead I half-ran to the front door and then dashed across the parking lot.

By the time I got the car to the entryway, Booth was leaned heavily against one of the columns that supported the awning. I pulled up beside him, reached over to throw the door open, and asked, "Do you need help?"

"No," he said as he folded himself into the front seat. "You need a bigger car."


End file.
